The Chase for the Mystery Twister

by Franklin W. Dixon

  The next twenty seconds lasted forever, Frank thought. Then the roar died to a low din, and the door stopped shaking. The farmer lit a lantern, revealing a room filled with canned foods and emergency supplies. Phil coughed up dust. Joe could barely open his eyes, they were so caked with dirt. The dog sneezed.

  “Bless you, Bullet,” the farmer said to his dog. He turned to Frank, Joe, and Phil. “I’m Snowdon Parlette. I don’t know who you guys are, but me and my dog thank you.”

  “I’m Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe,” Frank said, looking for a clean part of his sleeve to wipe his face.

  “I’m Phil Cohen,” Phil said with a slight wheeze.

  “I’ve seen you in town,” Snowdon told Phil. “Hanging out with that storm-chaser guy.”

  Frank patted Bullet’s head “Maybe next time you’ll know to come when your master calls you.”

  “Oh, he knows,” Snowdon said, rubbing his dog’s ear. “He just can’t hear too well anymore. Can’t see, neither. But his nose is just as keen as when he was a pup.”

  “Let’s talk more outside,” Joe suggested, starting up the steps.

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” Snowdon warned. Suddenly, the door began to shake as the roaring wind returned. Startled, Joe stumbled back down the stairs.

  “We were in the center of the funnel,” Snowdon explained, once again gripping and tugging the door handle to keep the shelter sealed. The howling of the wind began to fade, and after another ten seconds, it was gone. “Now it’s passed,” Snowdon said.

  They waited another five minutes to be sure, then emerged from the shelter.

  Mr. Jansen’s red bus and the other Windstormer vehicles were all around, and the team had already begun to record data.

  Frank looked in every direction. The twister had vanished. “What happened to the tornado?” he asked Phil.

  “It died out. Small ones don’t usually last long,” Phil said.

  “Small ones?” Frank repeated in disbelief.

  “Yeah, that was probably an F two,” Phil explained, surveying the damage around them. “An F five is the biggest. The funnel can be more than three miles across.”

  “I’m sure glad we brought our heavy-duty suitcase,” Joe said, walking away from his brother.

  “Where are you going?” Frank asked.

  “To get our luggage,” Joe replied, pointing to their bags, which had been carried out of the back of the pickup and dropped in the field at least fifty yards away.

  As Joe was returning with the suitcases, a man with a bass voice, a brown beard, and wearing glasses strolled over. “Are you all right, Phil?” he asked, seeming preoccupied with the clipboard on which he was feverishly writing.

  “Fine, Mr. Jansen,” Phil said, coughing again. “A little dusty.”

  Phil introduced Frank, Joe, and Snowdon.

  “Welcome to Twister Alley,” Jansen said.

  “Thanks, we’re glad to . . .” Joe began to reply, but Jansen had moved on, calling out instructions to another member of his team.

  “Do you own this farm?” Frank asked Snowdon.

  “I wish,” Snowdon replied. “It’s my dad’s. But he’s down in Dallas on business.” Snowdon looked around at the damage caused by the tornado. “Boy, is he in for a surprise when he gets back.”

  The Parlette barn was lying upside down in the middle of an okra field. “I’m just glad that Dad was able to buy tornado insurance last month from good ol’ Toby Gill,” Snowdon added.

  A young woman with long black hair, and wearing faded blue jeans and an untucked flannel shirt, walked up. “Phil, would you mind getting the video camera out of Wind Three?”

  “My pleasure, Diana” Phil replied, then introduced Diana Lucas to his friends.

  “So, Diana, how do you like Oklahoma Tech?” Frank asked.

  “Fine,” Diana replied, arching her eyebrows, curious.

  “You’re a senior majoring in physics,” Frank continued.

  “Yeah. How did you know? Are you a mind reader?” Diana wondered.

  “No,” Frank said, smiling. “I got all that from the college ring on your finger. The symbol for physics on one side, your class year on the other.”

  “Frank and Joe’s dad is a private detective back in our hometown of Bayport, New York,” Phil said to Diana.

  “And you two are following in his footsteps?” Diana finished the thought.

  “You could say that,” Joe replied. “But right now, we’re just here on spring break to visit Phil.”

  “Then welcome to Oklahoma,” Diana said, gesturing to the destruction around them and smiling. She turned to Phil. “Let’s get some videotape of the debris pattern starting at the property line and running to the overturned barn.”

  Phil nodded and headed off toward a dented gray off-road vehicle that the Hardys assumed was Wind Three.

  “What do you mean by debris patterns?” Joe wondered.

  “Can you see the track that the tornado took?” Diana asked, pointing and tracing the path the tornado had taken.

  “Yeah,” Joe replied. “It kind of looks like slightly overlapping letter C’s.”

  “Right. Notice where it deposited ninety-five percent of all the junk that it tore up?” Diana asked him.

  Joe hesitated, then realized. “To the left of the tornado’s path!”

  “Correct,” Diana explained. “And that’s how the debris pattern is every time. By studying it—”

  “Not every time,” a voice interrupted her. It was Lemar Jansen, who had overheard the conversation while passing by. “Five years ago, in New Mexico, I studied the aftermath of a twister that destroyed an isolated ranch house in the desert. The entire contents of the place had been hurled in every direction. I never have figured that one out.”

  “A mystery twister,” Frank said.

  “A mystery twister,” Jansen repeated, looking at Frank closely. “I like that.”

  “I need to get into town to talk with Toby Gill, the insurance man,” Snowdon said. “Why don’t you and Joe come on in and clean up?” he said to Frank.

  “Thanks,” Frank replied, looking at their wet, muddy clothes. “I think we’ll take you up on that.”

  As the Hardys followed Snowdon around the side of the farmhouse, Joe saw a strange, hairless creature scamper by, clucking.

  “Looks like the tornado hit our hen house,” Snowdon grumbled, pointing to the remains of a small wooden structure.

  “That was a hen?” Joe asked. “What happened to all its feathers?”

  “Plucked. That’s what tornado winds can do,” Snowdon replied as he opened the door to his blue pickup.

  “I’m afraid the winds did more than de-feather your chickens,” Frank said, nodding toward some rusty nails that had pierced and flattened two of Snowdon’s tires.

  “Well, doesn’t that just beat all,” Snowdon said, shaking his head and throwing his hat on the ground.

  “Maybe Phil can give you a ride into town,” Joe suggested.

  Just then Phil came running around the corner of the farmhouse, shouting with excitement. “Mr. Jansen got a phone call from Tulip. Another tornado just touched down. I need to assist him on the remote weather station,” Phil added, referring to the red bus that had pulled around the house to pick him up.

  “We’d better stay here and help Snowdon,” Frank said. “Can we borrow the Blue Bomber?”

  “Sure thing,” Phil replied, tossing Frank the keys as he ran to board the bus.

  The Hardys watched as the bus and four other vehicles sped up the dirt road leading from the Parlette farm and pulled out onto the highway, headed back toward Tulip.

  “So much for small-town life being quiet,” Joe said. “We’ve been here an hour, and we’ve already had more excitement than we’ve seen in Bayport all year!”

  • • •

  The town of Lone Wolf, Oklahoma, was indeed small, and it was ghostly, too, Joe thought. They drove by several ruins left by past tornadoes, including a crumbled bri
ck house that had posted in front of it a hand-painted sign that read: Used to Be 125 Main Street.

  A van from Channel 9 News, Lone Wolf, buzzed past them, headed back toward Tulip.

  “There’s Mr. Gill’s place,” Snowdon said, pointing to a small office tucked among the old-time storefronts along Main Street. Frank parked in front, and the Hardys and Snowdon entered the insurance office, the little bells on the door jingling behind them.

  “Whoa,” Joe said, looking around the small office. “It looks like a tornado hit in here, too.”

  The drawers of Gill’s desk were hanging open, as were the drawers to his filing cabinet. Papers were strewn across the room, and a broken desk lamp lay on the floor.

  “This couldn’t be tornado damage,” Snowdon said. “The doors were closed, and none of the windows is broken.”

  Frank heard a beeping noise and traced it to Gill’s telephone, which was lying on the floor under the desk. Snowdon reached to hang it up. “Don’t!” Frank warned. “We don’t want to touch anything. We need to get fingerprints.”

  Joe found that the back door to the office had been left ajar and led to an alleyway. A man with gray-streaked long black hair was parked there in a green station wagon. Seeing Joe, the man burned rubber and sped off just as Frank and Snowdon stepped into the alley.

  “Hey!” Joe shouted after him, then turned to Snowdon. “Was that Toby Gill?”

  “No,” Snowdon replied, wrinkling his forehead. “No, it wasn’t.” He turned and walked back inside without saying anything else. Joe and Frank exchanged a curious glance.

  Back inside the office, Snowdon and the Hardys examined the mess, being sure not to touch anything.

  On a shelf, Frank saw a framed photo of a man seated at a desk. He was blond and balding, with a small upturned nose and a friendly smile.

  “That’s Mr. Gill,” Snowdon said.

  “Do you know what was in here?” Joe asked, standing over a filing cabinet that had been completely emptied.

  “That’s where Mr. Gill kept all the insurance policies,” Snowdon said. “I think—” Snowdon stopped midsentence. He reached down and picked up a small oblong object from the floor.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Frank reminded him.

  “It’s just . . . my pocketknife,” Snowdon replied, showing him the ivory-cased blade. “I must have dropped it.”

  “This looks like a break-in. We’d better contact the local police,” Frank suggested.

  “Hold it!” a voice behind them shouted.

  Snowdon and the Hardys turned to find themselves facing a man in a white barber’s jacket. The man stood in the doorway, holding a gun belt in one hand and a revolver in the other.

  “You make one move, and I’ll shoot you where you stand!” he commanded.

  3 The Disappearance of Toby Gill

  * * *

  “Sheriff San Dimas?” Snowdon said. “It’s me, Snowdon Parlette. Andrew Parlette’s son.”

  “What are you doing in Toby’s office?” the man in the barber’s jacket asked.

  “I came in to fill out some claim forms,” Snowdon explained. “Dad’s out of town, and our farm got hit hard by the twister that just came through.”

  “It looks like all the insurance files are missing,” Frank said.

  “Who are you?” the sheriff asked.

  “Frank Hardy. And this is my brother, Joe,” Frank replied.

  “They’re friends with Mr. Jansen and his group, Sheriff,” Snowdon added.

  “Buenos días. I’m Carlos San Dimas,” the sheriff said with a nod. “Old Mr. Wilkie came in here to see Toby a few minutes ago,” San Dimas explained, lowering his revolver. “He fetched me from the barbershop. Said Toby Gill’s place had been ransacked.”

  “I’m confused, Mr. San Dimas,” Joe said. “Are you a barber or the sheriff?”

  “Both,” San Dimas replied, putting his revolver back in the holster of the gun belt. “Lone Wolf doesn’t have enough crime or enough money to hire a full-time sheriff. So when I’m not fighting crime, I’m cutting hair.”

  San Dimas walked over to the open filing cabinet. “Did you boys touch anything?”

  “No, sir,” Frank said. “Our dad is a retired detective, so we’re pretty familiar with police procedure.”

  San Dimas nodded with satisfaction. “And you saw no sign of Toby?” he asked.

  The boys shook their heads.

  “When’s the last time anyone’s seen Mr. Gill?” Joe wondered.

  “I saw Toby opening up his office at six this morning. He smiled and waved at me,” San Dimas replied, kneeling beside the phone.

  “The phone was off the hook when we got here,” Joe told him.

  The sheriff picked up the receiver with a clean handkerchief and hung it up. The loud, piercing beep was silenced. “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “No,” Snowdon replied quickly.

  “Actually, yes. There’s one thing,” Joe said, correcting him. “In the alley, I saw a man in a green station wagon drive away the second he saw me.”

  “A green station wagon?” San Dimas repeated, turning to look Snowdon in the eye. “Did he have long black hair? An older man?”

  Snowdon didn’t answer, so Frank spoke up. “Yes, sir. But Snowdon said it wasn’t Toby Gill.”

  “No, it was Henry Low River,” San Dimas told them. “He’s a woodcarver. Lives in Tahlequah, a town in the Cherokee Nation.”

  “So?” Snowdon said, bristling. “He was driving down the alley. What does that mean?”

  “It means I’d like to talk to him about Toby’s disappearance,” San Dimas replied.

  “Disappearance?” Snowdon shot back. “Who’s to say that Mr. Gill didn’t have to leave to take care of some emergency?”

  “Look at this ransacked office, Snowdon,” San Dimas replied. “Henry Low River has held a grudge against Toby for more than a year. He’s threatened him repeatedly.”

  “Henry’s threats were just a lot of talk,” Snowdon insisted. “He would never harm anyone.”

  “Mr. Low River is a strange character. I’m not so convinced he’s harmless,” San Dimas replied. “Now, unless you have any more information to give me, I’m going to ask you boys to leave the premises. I’m declaring this office a possible crime scene.”

  After giving the sheriff information on where they could be reached, Frank, Joe, and Snowdon climbed into the truck and headed back toward the Parlette farm.

  “Looks like our friendly visit may be turning into a criminal investigation,” Joe said to his brother.

  Snowdon stayed silent, his mouth tight. Frank could see something was bothering him. “What exactly was Henry Low River’s grudge against Toby Gill?” he asked.

  “Ten years ago, when Mr. Low River was living in Texas, he got a phone call from a man who called himself Todd Allan Miller. He said he wanted to build an art gallery in town to display all of Mr. Low River’s wood sculptures. Miller sent him all kinds of official documents and blueprints. There were even real estate signs set out on the lot where the gallery was supposed to be built. My grand—” Snowdon suddenly stopped speaking.

  “Mr. Low River was tricked into sending the man his life savings to help pay for the construction,” Snowdon continued. “Once Miller cashed Mr. Low River’s check, no one ever heard from him again. The real estate signs were phony, and the official documents turned out to be forged and worthless.”

  “But what does that have to do with Toby Gill?” Joe asked.

  “When Mr. Low River first met Gill in Lone Wolf, he was convinced he was Todd Allan Miller,” Snowdon replied. “He’s threatened Gill in public, saying he was going to get justice one way or another.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone believe Low River?” Frank wondered.

  “Mr. Low River never saw this Miller guy in person,” Snowdon explained. “Everything was done by mail or over the telephone. But he says he recognizes Gill’s voice.”

  “Maybe we should check up on Toby Gill’s
background,” Frank said, pushing in the clutch and waggling the stick shift, trying to find third gear on the rickety old truck.

  “Sheriff San Dimas checked,” Snowdon responded. “Toby Gill’s been an insurance broker for twenty years. His reputation is spotless. And he was living in Missouri until a few years ago, so he can’t be Todd Allan Miller.”

  “Low River had a motive for trashing Gill’s office today—revenge—even if it was misguided,” Joe pointed out. “And he is the only one we saw at the scene.”

  “It wasn’t Henry Low River!” Snowdon snapped, raising his voice.

  “How can you be so sure?” Joe asked.

  “Because Henry Low River is my grandfather?” Snowdon said.

  4 The Mystery Twister Strikes

  * * *

  Joe stared, dumbstruck, at the blond-haired, blue-eyed farmer. “I never would have guessed you were Native American.”

  “Only one-quarter,” Snowdon replied. “When I was growing up, my parents seldom talked about our Cherokee heritage. I guess I still feel a little funny about it.”

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “There’s still a lot of prejudice, even today,” Snowdon explained. “Grandpa Henry and I hardly ever see each other. He lives in the Cherokee Nation, and, well . . .” Snowdon trailed off, looking out the window.

  “Anything wrong?” Frank asked.

  “If something bad has happened to Toby Gill,” Snowdon replied, “everyone in town’s going to think my grandfather is responsible. I’m pretty near dead sure he isn’t responsible. I just hope I can prove it.”

  “We’d be glad to help,” Joe offered. “We can follow a trail of clues as well as Bullet can follow a scent.”

  “And our hearing is a whole lot better,” Frank joked, but Snowdon didn’t laugh. “Even if your grandfather didn’t harm Gill,” Frank continued, “maybe he knows something about what happened to him.”

  Snowdon was silent for a moment. “Here’s the car repair shop,” he said to Frank, who pulled in front of the garage and parked.

  “We need to hook up with Phil in Tulip,” Joe said, “but maybe we can meet later and help you find your grandfather.”